


Pull the Earth Around Me

by lumosity (strawberry_bee)



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Aziraphale POV, Fluff, M/M, Or Is he?, Unspoken words, crowley is oblivious, how ardently they love each other, oh the fluff, plants set them up, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_bee/pseuds/lumosity
Summary: Aziraphale keeps his eyes on the road as he always does. He watches Crowley’s slender fingers on the steering wheel as he always does. And as always, he wonders what they would feel, his hand on his thigh, an absent thumb or pinkie tapping a rhythm to the music against the fabric of his pants leg.------In limbo, much like the endless August ahead, they don't know where they stand. Aziraphale doesn't communicate very well because he's a dumb angel but I love him anyways. Just fluff!





	Pull the Earth Around Me

Aziraphale keeps his eyes on the road as he always does. He watches Crowley’s slender fingers on the steering wheel as he always does. And as always, he wonders what they would feel, his hand on his thigh, an absent thumb or pinkie tapping a rhythm to the music against the fabric of his pants leg. 

“D’you want to stop by the nursery?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale is startled out of his reviere. He wants to ask instead that they go home, to his place, to figure out what they are in an August that never ends. 

“Sure,” He says stiffly instead, coiling his fingers together in a clasping prayer to God to give him some answers. But, as usual, there’s no response. Whether it’s over the company he keeps, or the answers are right in front of him, he doesn’t know. 

They had just come back from a visit with Adam, one that branched long enough for the two of them to bring up the issue of having an August that has gone on comparatively for a half a year. The sheepish grin of a boy who was just found out playing with the fabric of time is still etched into his memory. He knows that Adam means well, knows that starting school again must be something absolutely dreadful. Luckily enough, once they had brought up the situation with the Them, the consensus was that Adam’s friends wanted to grow up just a little more, thank you very much. So Adam had to agree to it on the condition that winter break could be another half year if he so pleased. 

“I figure you’re pleased to bits about a cold winter lasting forever,” Crowley says, smoothly pulling the car into a parking spot that wasn’t there three seconds beforehand. 

“I do like a bit of hot cocoa in the evenings,” Aziraphale admits, although really it's daydreams that he yearns for. There’s something fitting about dreaming of a time somewhere in the indefinite future where he can clasp Crowley in his arms and never let him go. Aziraphale was largely a fan about immersing oneself into what one truly desired. Within reason of course. 

“You would have hot cocoa if the world was on fire,” Crowley says, a little surly. Aziraphale wants to take his hand, pulling him back into the car with him, kiss him senseless on the unchristened leather seat. Instead he gets out. Marches to the garden house a respectable distance away from Crowley. 

He is always mindful of how far he must be from the serpent. Knows it better than all the miles he has walked on this Earth from the beginning to the almost-end. In a way, he has existed in such a way that he is in an orbit. A planet caught in the thrall of a larger celestial being. Not that he minds. He doesn’t think one is supposed to mind what they’ve been made to do. 

Aziraphale, of course, wonders a little about that. About being made to love Crowley. He wonders if it was part of the ineffable plan, this unspoken thing that has ebbed and flowed throughout the centuries. He also wonders if this is a punishment of sorts for the sword he gave away freely as if it was his own to give. 

Aziraphale watches Crowley palm the underside of some ferns. They’re more alike than he would ever confess. Both want freedom, except only one of them was ever brave enough to do it. Coward, yes, that’s the word. Yet he knows that Crowley had meant nothing to him until he had slithered his way up the wall of Eden to his side. They had witnessed the death of the lion together, and he had protected him from the first rainfall. 

When Aziraphale tries to remember Crowley before he fell, the best he can think of is a flitting image of the star workshops, a redheaded angel cooing over a nursery of newborn stars and promising that they will be beautiful and brilliant. He had never spoken to him, but in that brief view, he had known that whatever the redhead did, it would be full of nurturing affection. And isn’t that what Crowley has always done? The demon has moved off to the clearance section, rumbling in that voice that has tried to be harsh but can only soothe. He is holding a wilted orchid, the leaves perking up in his arms. 

“You should get him,” Aziraphale says dazedly, still stuck in his reverie. Crowley throws him a look that borders on affection.

“I’ll end up getting the whole rack, and then where will we be?” Crowley says lightly, picking up a plastic pot half-filled with dirt and vibrant petunias that had the unfortunate circumstance to be at their best in the off season.

_ Your house can abide the increase of plants, my opinion doesn’t matter a bit to what you do with your home.  _ Aziraphale thinks. Instead he makes a noncommittal noise. 

They wander the nursery some more. Crowley decides on three other plants, and they walk out without paying. Aziraphale doesn’t realize the fact until they are peeling out of the parking lot, and he mostly realizes because he’s the one cradling the plants in his lap. 

“Crowley, dear, that was an independent nursery,” Aziraphale says tentatively. 

“Did you see the way they had the plants? They’re lucky if they’re open still by spring,” Crowley says, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Aziraphale sighs. He’s not up to it, curbing Crowley’s anger. He wonders again about their first meeting, if Crowley was created to be a temptation for a certain angel that had nearly fallen for a sword. 

If that was the case, why was it that he still loved Crowley after he had given the sword back? 

“Angel, something’s been eating at you,” Crowley says, reaching up to slide his glasses down his nose to look meaningfully at Aziraphale. 

“No, I’m fine,” Aziraphale says lamely. He knows as he says it that Crowley isn’t buying it. But how can he explain the knot in his chest to the one person on this earth that knows him best? Even he would take one look and throw his hands up in exasperation. 

“Well, if you wanna talk about it, I’d like your company while I plant these poor things,” Crowley says. Aziraphale nods. He barely catches on that Crowley has smoothly invited him over to his house without saying it. That was the thing about Crowley, he knew what to say no matter what. 

For once Crowley doesn’t test Aziraphale’s patience with his driving. Aziraphale figures he must truly look like he swallowed a bunch of lemons by the way Crowley is acting careful around him. It doesn’t matter though, because the second the bentley is parked and they’re heading into the stairwell towards the janitor’s closet, it’s all Aziraphale can do to juggle the plants as Crowley unceremoniously wrangles them from him. 

Aziraphale wanders Crowley’s apartment as he disappears into an adjacent room to start nursing the plants back to health. He has walked these halls before, has brushed his fingertips against the smooth walls and the back of his throne. His throne has been another object of Aziraphale’s dreams, naturally. Aziraphale looks away from the throne guiltily, heat rising from his collar to his cheeks. Crowley is his friend, he cannot lose him because of the knotted thing that has rested in his chest as long as he could remember. 

He makes his way back to the room that Crowley is in. He leans against the doorframe, watching Crowley’s hands that are blackened by the earth he is wrist-deep in. He palms the earth expertly from the bag to the terracotta, humming a song that even Aziraphale cannot exactly place. He pats the plants lovingly into their new homes, murmurs words of encouragement as he sets them upon the windowsill that by all rights should not exist given that he resides in a janitor’s closet in the busiest district of London. But there is bird song outside, and Aziraphale knows that if Crowley wished it there would be fat bumble bees floating lazily in and out of the cracked windowsill to artfully fertilize his plants. 

“Angel, what is eating at you?” Crowley asks, startling Aziraphale. The demon hasn’t turned around, but Aziraphale knows when Crowley holds his shoulders tight that he is worried. Aziraphale clears his throat. 

“Nothing my dear, just worried about a delivery that hasn’t arrived with some first editions. They should’ve been at the bookshop yesterday,” Aziraphale lies smoothly. The books are technically delayed, but he had called and settled the manner so that they would be at the shop tomorrow. 

“No, not that. You’re looking at me like I’m a ghost or something,” Crowley presses on. He stands, going to the metal basin alongside the wall and washes his hands. Aziraphale can picture the dirt washing away, the water starting dirty, slowly becoming purified once more. He wants--

He doesn’t know what he wants. Not enough to say it aloud. 

“I was just thinking that you’ll be sad that August will finally be over. Your plants will need to be bedded down for the colder weather,” Aziraphale says instead. Crowley hums, taking the bait almost too willingly as he turns to look at the new editions to his home. 

“I was hoping they would survive better in a more shadowed environment. You know, little sunlight, candlelight is fine though,” Crowley says meaningfully. Aziraphale frowns, feeling that he is just one step behind. 

“Do bookshops have a thing against ferns?” Crowley continues innocently. Aziraphale shakes his head quickly, relieved. A gift he can accept. That’s the easy part. 

“Good, let me grab my best one, and we’ll go,” He whisks out of the room before Aziraphale can finish his protest. 

“My dear, your plants should stay with you, they’re yours, after all,” Aziraphale rambles, wringing his hands as he follows Crowley. 

“Nonsense, they’re as much as yours as they are mine,” Crowley says brusquely, rounding the corner and pushing a gigantic pot bursting with ferns into his arms before he can think about what to do with them. 

Aziraphale peers at Crowley through the greenery, ferns brushing against his lips, feathersoft as Crowley raises an eyebrow from beneath his shades. 

“Something the matter?” He asks. Aziraphale can think of several issues, most of which end up with Crowley thrown up against the wall, whispering Aziraphale’s name like a prayer as he finds his lips on his neck.

“No, I just, I, erm,” Aziraphale clears his throat. “I was just trying...trying to remember if I ever met you in Eden is all.”

“Oh, that?” Crowley laughs quickly, and Aziraphale figures he has only imagined the hint of disappointment in his voice. 

“I saw you often, but I made sure you didn’t see me. Wouldn’t of worked, if you had. I had to do the tempting first, before I got to say hello,” Crowley says brightly. He moves past Aziraphale, grabs his keys as Aziraphale follows behind. 

“Why wouldn’t it of worked?” Aziraphale asks, following him onto the street. 

“Because you would’ve ratted me out, or poked me with that flaming sword of yours,” Crowley teases gently, holding the door open for him. 

“No, I wouldn’t have,” Aziraphale says sternly to the empty space of the bentley after Crowley shuts the door. A moment later Crowley is in the cramped space with him and the fern, and Aziraphale wonders if it would be impolite to the fern to confess one’s feelings right in front of it. 

He doesn’t get much of a chance, but he gets to watch his hands on the wheel, and he yearns as he always had the past hundred years that Crowley has owned this blasted automobile. 

It happens quickly, too quickly for Aziraphale to really think, but Crowley’s hand moves fast, steadies the pot as they turn sharply around a corner before he lets it drop on Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale feels that knot in his throat, twice as thick, choking on him as he feels his heartbeat thrum against Crowley’s fingertips. 

“Crowley, I-” He starts, and before he can get it out Crowley has drawn his hand away.

“Sorry, wanted to keep your from getting dirt on your pants,” Crowley mumbles, cheeks red as he focuses on the road. Aziraphale feels the fern tickle the underside of his chin, and he foolishly thinks that the plant is encouraging him.

When they pull into the front of the bookshop, Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s arm before he can dart out again. 

“What’s wrong angel?” Crowley asks, turning. Aziraphale wets his lips, thinking about all the words he has read over the years. None of them come close to helping, even Romeo and Juliet fail him now. 

“Crowley, I--” He starts. 

“You can’t accept the gift, I know, so let’s just say you found it on the side of the road,” Crowley says impatiently. Aziraphale shakes his head. No, he wont take the bait, not this time, even though he is sorely tempted to. 

“You...you know how I feel about you, right?” Aziraphale says, the words flat on his tongue. He winces. He can feel his late friend Oscar Wilde screaming at him from all the way up in Heaven. It’s not his fault. It’s Crowley’s fault for being himself.

“Of course I do, you bathed in holy water for me,” Crowley says, brows knitting together in confusion. Aziraphale drops his gaze, sees that Crowley’s hand is resting between the two of them. 

“I think about your hands a lot,” Aziraphale starts. He winces, the silence filling the car as both plant and snake wait for him to continue.

“I, I just, I think of your palm against my cheek, or your hand on my leg as you drive, or at the small of my back as we walk to lunch, and oh, I’m making a terrible fool of myself,” Aziraphale bursts out, feeling the tears building behind his eyes. He makes to get out, the blasted fern getting in the way of his scrabbling fingers as he tries to find the door handle. 

Gentle fingers cup just under his chin, fingers that he has memorized through the long years that turn his head gently back to what he doesn’t want to face. He keeps his eyes downcast, can feel the trembling in his limbs. It’s not fear, it’s concern. That he has ruined everything between the two of them. That he has found a clever way to let him down gently. 

He misses Crowley coming closer until his lips are upon his, and Aziraphale realizes belatedly that no amount of daydreams can compare to this. He feels Crowley’s hands in his hair, feels his heart thrum in time with the grace in his chest.

_ Oh,  _ he thinks,  _ so this is love.  _


End file.
